


Price

by Clara_Parlato



Series: Stitched Smile [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Body Horror, Descent into Madness, Horror, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Langst, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Psychological Horror, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 10:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17000106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_Parlato/pseuds/Clara_Parlato
Summary: What price they would pay to get the wars done with? Nights of sleep? An arm? An eye? A soul.





	Price

**Author's Note:**

> I am way too lazy to correct any errors, I’ll let future my deal with the regret later. Again.

It was becoming rarer to see Lance without one of his dolls. I was rare to see Lance without his stitched smile. It was hard to see Lance when Coran had to make sure the Castle of Lions was running perfectly with all its glory. He wished he had someone to help him take care of the boy, but there was no one.

No one.

No.

For the only other option would be to ask for help from the team, and while, yes, maybe it would be a wise choice, Coran refused to do so. For once, he promised himself, for once he would act less like a wise man and more like a foolish father, putting his child and their desires above the universe and its complaints.

But it was so hard to see his boy, his son, his Lance lose himself more and more. To see such bright mind shatter and fiery soul burn out.

To do it alone was a torture he wished he was the only one in all universes feeling, for no one, not even the worst of them, deserved such heartbreak.

To lose a loved one to their own mind, a place no one could follow them.

Maybe, maybe that reality had enough mercy left, maybe it pitied the poor man enough, for after six months of agonizing pain for all parties involved—although Lance, to the Altean’s horror, seemed to become numb to pain, the stitches on his lips getting less sloppier each day—, it sent help for the tired soul.

It came Hunk sized, and a hair separated the help from being yet another curse.

Hunk had been cooking when he found it. A doll. A perfect little replica of him. He immediately recognized Lance’s craftsmanship, he remembered receiving a similar gift once, although the recent doll was clearly made with superior skill. Smiling softly, he made sure to keep Hunk-doll away from the stove and the sink, finally deciding what to make.

His buddy had been quite quiet the last days, maybe some garlic knots—or as close as it could get—and a visit of that little guy would cheer him up.

While cooking, the Yellow Paladin noticed how silent the room was. He noticed that before, Pidge would come and sit on the table nearby with her notebook. Shiro would come to have a small chat, trying not to look like he was curious about what the chef was doing. Allura and Coran would usually come together, and their questions of Earth culinary were endless. Keith would hover around the door until Lance came and pushed him inside, sitting his rival near him so they could bicker out of Hunk’s way.

And Lance would usually come with a smile on his face and a compliment in his tongue.

Where was Lance?

Should Hunk call him?

No, he decided, if Lance is feeling down, he’ll want to stay in his room. Hunk would finish cooking and go check on him with some food in hands, planning on giving his friend some space and some comfort.

A few taste-tests later, Hunk was ready to go see his best friend. Hunk-doll sitting on his shoulder. A tray in hands. A smile. Kind eyes.

Neglectful.

When he finally entered Lance’s room—without knocking, as given permission by the room’s master—, he had to stop for a moment to digest what he was seeing. They were everywhere. Dangling from the ceiling. Over the floor. Over the desk. Over the chair. Of all sizes. Of all people he knew. Of all people he hadn’t maybe seen even once.

Dolls.

Cloth dolls.

With stitched smiles and button eyes.

Suddenly, the smile on Hunk-doll’s face seemed a lot crueler.

“Lance?”

There was a bundle on the floor near the bed. Someone clearly covered with a sheet, curled up and whimpering. The sheet fell from his shoulders to show the brown locks, messy and sticking out in every direction and an old shirt exposing his neck. His back to Hunk, he could still feel the eyes on him if his shoulders stopping to shake was any indication.

“Lance?” He tried again; what more could he do? Leaving the tray on the desk, carefully opening a space for it in between Zarkon-doll and Haggar-doll, he approached his friend. “Lance, buddy, I brought you some food.”

No response.

“Also, I found one of your dolls.”

That had a response, Lance sitting straighter and the whimpering stopping.

“It’s a doll of me and it’s so cute! You’ve really gotten better at this!”

Now, Hunk wasn’t one to faint. Vomit, yes. Crying, definitely. But not fainting. No.

But how could he not? How could he not lose his conscious mind when Lance turned to look at him? With big blue eyes, frantic and full of tears. With his lips shut with a black-almost-blue thread. With his lap covered with dolls of the team. With blood dripping from where the stitches pierced flesh, running down his chin. With bloody fingertips covered with the same blood, nails that clearly had been trying to rip off the thread—or the flesh around it, Lance didn’t seem to care. All he seemed to care about was crawling to where Hunk was and trying to get the doll from his friend’s hands.

Hunk wasn’t one to faint.

* * *

Hunk woke up a few hours later, in the infirmary, Coran sitting nearby, waiting. Not for him, no, but for what he had to say.

“How long?”

“Six months, by your human timestamps.”

“Why?”

“How was the kitchen today?”

Empty. Quiet.

Not a living soul around, no, life was indeed too worried with its own devices. With its own problems. With its own war.

What price they would pay to get the wars done with? Nights of sleep? An arm? An eye? A soul.

The most expensive of them.

Hunk exhaled, the air coming out of his mouth hot like the tears on his cheeks. Hunk could be very neglectful once he got his mind in something. He could even forget to eat. Lance was not. No. Lance could never be neglectful, he was a caretaker, he noticed things and he acted accordingly. Hunk could forget to eat; Lance could never forget the taste of dinner with his family. And if Lance couldn’t forget, then what would it mean to be forgotten?

Hunk could be neglectful. But he was not dumb. He could see the team deteriorating. The bags under tired eyes. The mouths closed in thin lines. The tense muscles in need of a laugh. The lack of will to move forwards. The empty shells saving an equally empty universe.

Hunk could be neglectful. But he was not dumb. There, on one of the infirmary beds, he stitched together the pieces of the puzzle. Lance was deteriorating. And the team was deteriorating with him.

Lance was their life force, the thing that made the life in them live. And he was rotting away, not by Death—no, that would have been too merciful—, but by madness.

“I am a horrible friend.”

The lack of answer from Coran didn’t make him feel any better, but also didn’t make him feel worse. He had been expecting that from the man that practically adopted the boy.

The boy.

The boy that had been clawing desperately the stitches sealing his lips so the anguished cries building up his throat could be heard by his universe of dolls. Blood and tears and pain.

Without noticing, the Paladin caressed his own lips with his fingers.

“He took them out, I was able to convince him to stay without them for a few days.”

Convince. Lance needed to be convinced of letting his mouth free. Lance, the most talkative person Hunk had ever met.

Hunk wasn’t one to faint, but he might as well had been, as he felt the desire to let the darkness engulf him once more.

“What can I do?” Came the question from between lips and fingers, trembling voice nothing more than a croaked whisper.

“What price are you willing to pay?”

For Lance’s well-being?

His own mind and soul.


End file.
